


Like Any Other Day

by ClaudiaRain



Series: The Things That Matter [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - (Almost) Everyone Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Friendship, Good Peter Hale, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, Light Angst, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Peter Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Power Dynamics, Protective Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24695188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaudiaRain/pseuds/ClaudiaRain
Summary: Stiles isn't a fan of mornings. Peter does what he can to make them better.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: The Things That Matter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966201
Comments: 39
Kudos: 632





	Like Any Other Day

**Author's Note:**

> For once the tags describe one of my stories much better than any summary I could come up with, so they merit a quick scan if you skipped past them. Those tags are _exactly_ what you're getting in this story. This is Peter and Stiles, in the process of falling in love, against a background of everyone in this show being part of a happy, loving, functional family.
> 
> This story stands on its own, but it takes place in a vast universe in my mind, which I might expand upon. But for now, I wrote this because I wanted some happiness, and I hope it brings happiness to some other people out there, too.

_Mornings_.

They are the _worst_.

Stiles knows this from almost 20 years of living through them. So what did he do when he scheduled his fall semester classes? He chose _all morning ones_.

He had his reasons at the time – and they made sense, he swears they did! – but he can’t remember them right now when it’s not even 7 in the morning and he’s dragged himself out of his warm, comfortable, _cozy_ bed in order to get to class on time. 

He doesn’t technically live at the rebuilt and redesigned Hale house, but it’s the pack house and he has his own room, so he’s here all the time. He stays over more often than not, because the home he shares with his dad is usually empty, and to be perfectly honest…lonely. His dad’s usually either working or with Melissa, and Stiles would much rather spend his free time with his friends than sit in an empty house, staring at the walls or his laptop.

His first class is at 8 and the campus is approximately 30 minutes away, with relatively little traffic, so he has some time before he has to get going. The only reason he’s out of bed this early is because he needs at _least_ a half hour of being up and about (‘up and about’ being a relative term) in the morning to ensure he’s awake enough before getting in his jeep, otherwise he’s as likely to end up in a ditch off the highway as he is to make it to class alive.

He’d successfully gotten over the first hurdle of the morning, which was making it through his shower without drowning (though he barely recalls most of it since he’d been half-unconscious). But still, it’s another shower survived! He’s sure that everyone will be proud of his monumental achievement. 

Now he’s sitting at the kitchen island, staring (yes, maybe pathetically) at the coffee machine all the way across the room. He forgot to turn it on when he came into the kitchen and he’s not confident he has the energy to make it all the way back over there.

He props his head in his hands and wonders if he can turn it on with the sheer force of willpower. _If he just believes enough…_ But alas, nothing happens. Alright, he’ll go over there, in one more minute…

He lets his eyes fall shut, mentally running through what he has to do for the day, but all too soon his thoughts are getting hazy and he’s in a pleasant, close-to-dreaming state, which is a nice reprieve from the exhaustion. He jerks back awake the moment he feels himself tipping and wonders if he has time for a quick nap on this inviting granite countertop… 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” a voice murmurs near his ear and Stiles jolts in surprise, tensing in the split second before he registers who’s come up behind him. He instantly relaxes upon realizing it’s Peter Hale – pack alpha, stunningly amoral (and proud of it) lawyer, and general bane/joy of his existence. Despite his best intentions, Stiles feels himself automatically leaning back towards him. (He’ll forgive himself; mornings are cold and Peter’s always so _warm_.) 

“One of these days, you’re going to scare me to death for real,” Stiles warns, as his eyes drift shut again. 

“Never,” Peter swears, then presses a fleeting kiss to his temple in apology. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Then stop moving like a literal _shadow_ ,” Stiles complains, refusing to open his eyes even as he vigorously rubs them. (Surely that will help him wake up, right?)

“Stealth is a valuable trait,” Peter claims as he moves away, and Stiles shivers when an unwelcome rush of cool air returns in his wake. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, seeing as you’ve never possessed it.”

Stiles reluctantly opens his eyes, mostly so he can keep track of exactly where Peter is, because the other man makes a good point that he’s preternaturally (…supernaturally?) stealthy. Stiles inwardly sighs when he takes in how composed Peter is this morning, looking like he stepped right out of a _GQ_ spread (if _GQ_ were doing a story on how to look perfect within ten minutes of getting out of bed – Peter dislikes waking up early as much as Stiles does, so there’s no way he’s been up very long). It’s all the more unfair when Stiles is painfully aware that he looks like a complete wreck, with his hair being particularly unruly after his shower, and having thrown on the first things he’d grabbed (comfortable jeans and a hoodie) that he knew were clean.

His annoyance with Peter’s effortless appearance fades considerably when the other man hits a few buttons on the coffeemaker, then sends him a wry glance that reveals he knows _exactly_ how insurmountable that task had seemed to Stiles mere moments earlier. (The machine is some insanely expensive contraption which requires far more commands than an on/off switch – it has a timer function, too, but Stiles never remembers to set it the night before.)

Mornings are the time of day when Stiles’ brain operates the slowest, and it takes him a few seconds to remember Peter’s terrible greeting. “What do you mean by ‘good’ morning?” Stiles demands. He and Peter have fought about this before. “We’ve established that there’s nothing good about any morning. Least of all this one.”

“ _You_ have established that,” Peter reminds him. “I happen to disagree.” When Stiles tries to glare him into submission (which infuriatingly never works), Peter adds, “Just because the morning isn’t good for you, at this very moment, doesn’t mean it’s not good for other people.”

“Well, I’m not other people,” Stiles gripes. “Therefore, my decree stands. There’s nothing good about mornings. Especially not when they happen this early in the day.”

Peter’s beginning to smile. “Don’t all mornings happen early in the day?”

“Which is why they’re awful, Peter!” _How is he not following?_ “In other words – let me spell it out for you – they’re _not good_.” Stiles is aware he’s being unreasonable, but he doesn’t care. He hates mornings almost as much as he loves arguing with Peter. (So the trajectory of this discussion was inevitable, and Peter had known it – he’d probably been banking on it.)

“Nothing good about them,” Peter says thoughtfully, as if he’s coming around to reason, but Stiles knows he’s not. (How does he know? _Because he’s Peter Hale_.) 

“Nothing good,” Stiles echoes.

“Not one thing.”

“Nope.”

“I can prove you wrong,” Peter counters. “I see one good thing.”

Stiles makes a show of looking around the kitchen, empty save for the two of them, then throws his hands up when he’s left at a loss. “Is it the coffee?” he asks, rubbing his eyes again because it’s difficult to keep them open (even if he _does_ have the sight of Peter Hale to enjoy).

Peter shakes his head a little, smile turning warmer. “It’s _you_ , Stiles.”

Stiles feels his face heat, because the compliment is beyond ridiculous. But again, that’s Peter Hale _._ Stiles expects nothing less from him by now. 

“It’s not even 7 yet,” he reminds Peter, pointing at the microwave clock which reads – _oh God, 6:58_. “It’s too early to be charming. Also, I’m impervious to your charm. _Also_ ,” he ignores Peter’s increasingly amused dismay, “don’t think you can charm something out of me by being all…” He waves a hand around, “ _nice_.”

“As you just said, it’s not even 7 in the morning.” Peter folds his arms and leans back against the counter and _that shot, right there_ , that would be the goddamn cover of the magazine. “It’s too early for me to try and sort through all that.”

“I might not follow along if you tried,” Stiles admits. ( _He’s so tired_.)

“I think I’ll try,” Peter announces cheerfully, as Stiles groans and drops his head back into his hands. “To your first point, it’s never too early to be charming.” He gestures at himself. “I can’t turn this off, Stiles. It’s a blessing. And a curse.”

“God, why do I talk to you before the sun is up?”

“The official sunrise was 15 minutes ago.”

Stiles resists the urge to tear his hair out. “You’re making my point for me.”

Peter, as usual, is unconcerned with Stiles’ lament. “On to your second claim: you are _not_ impervious to my charm.” Stiles’ heart rate spikes at that, but Peter is kind enough not to smirk at him. “Don’t feel bad, darling. _No one_ is.”

Stiles sighs loudly, because there’s really not much he can say to counter that (alarmingly) true statement. The alpha’s always displayed an otherworldly talent of swaying people to his point of view, and it’s only gotten more obvious since they rebuilt the pack under Peter’s leadership. He’d even won over Stiles’ dad. His _dad_. (Stiles had known, right then, that any hope of ever checking Peter’s ego was forever lost.)

“And your third claim,” Peter’s continuing. “Why do you think I’m trying to…get something from you?”

Stiles stares at him in astonishment. “Because you’re Peter Hale!”

“Stiles.”

“Well, you are,” Stiles grumbles, mostly because that’s the only ‘argument’ he has right now. 

“I _am_ Peter Hale,” Peter agrees. “So that must mean…I’m only kind when I want something?”

“I was joking,” Stiles says, because that much is true. If not wholly, then at least in part. (He makes a lot of jokes along those lines, and Peter can certainly take them, but… Peter has this ability to sense whenever there’s more going on and he consistently _calls Stiles on it._ )

“ _Were_ you joking?” Peter asks, but there’s no accusation in it; he simply wants to know.

Stiles ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck. He knows exactly what Peter is driving at, because they’ve talked about this before. It’s just that –

“Stiles,” Peter interrupts his thoughts. The quiet way he’s spoken means he’s not going to continue talking until Stiles looks at him, so he reluctantly does. “Someone can be nice to you without wanting anything in return.”

 _There it is_. Stiles swallows around the sudden ache in his throat. ”Sorry if that hasn’t usually been my experience,” he says defensively, hating that it doesn’t come out as sharply as he wants. To his dismay, he mostly sounds…resigned.

Peter’s expression turns more calculating and that rarely bodes well for Stiles. He looks back at the coffee machine, willing it to hurry the hell up and save him from _conversation_. 

“Okay,” Peter says slowly. “If you want to look at it that way, then I’ll play along. I _do_ want something.”

Stiles feels a wave of ice sweep through him, because despite what he’d said, he hadn’t truly thought Peter would want anything in return for… Well, for any favor or kindness on his part. He’s always insisting that’s not how a successful pack operates. According to Peter’s Moral Code for Packs (as Stiles has taken to calling it in his own head), they should ask for things and _want_ to help each other in return. An exchange of favors is fine if both parties agree upfront, but no one implicitly _owes_ anyone else. Owing leads to debts, it leads to grudges and resentment, and eventually people going along with things against their will because they think (they _learn_ ) that they're expected to say ‘yes’ to anyone who wants to be repaid.

It doesn’t work that way with their pack; Peter has never allowed it.

But that hardly matters if Peter’s making an exception _now_ , does it? This is Stiles’ own fault, really, because (again, despite knowing better) he’s always making jokes and comments like that to Peter. Asking what the man’s really after, what he _really_ wants… Peter’s probably sick of it, so he’s decided to prove Stiles right. Keep expecting the worst and you eventually get it. 

(And isn’t that the story of Stiles’ entire life.)

Stiles has nearly two decades of experience with this kind of thing. He’s used to people trying to get on his good side, trying to manipulate him when they want something. It had practically defined his entire high school career, with people acting uncharacteristically kind whenever they wanted help with school (or for Stiles to do their work for them outright). 

It hadn’t been limited to school, either. It’s been a persistent pattern of his life that people see Stiles as someone useful. Someone they can get things from, or who will solve their problems. He can’t count the number of times people have cozied up to him (or in a few ill-advised cases, threatened him) in order to try and secure favors from other people _through_ him: they’ll want help from Scott, or his dad, or (strangely enough, lately) Peter.

And don’t get him wrong, Stiles has always been happy to help, always _wanted_ to help as much as he could, but it’s never fun to realize after the fact that the only reason a lot of people cared (or pretended to care) about him was to get whatever they wanted in return.

Whenever Peter has wanted his help, he’s always posed the question with the understanding that Stiles can say ‘no’. He’s never demanded anything with the expectation that Stiles _owes_ him compliance. So for Peter to turn things around on him, even if it’s only to make a point or teach some lesson… 

It’s making Stiles feel worse by the moment, an anxiety building in him that he can’t shake, no matter how hard he tries to rationalize what Peter’s doing. 

“Hey,” Peter’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, “where did you go, just now?” The question is so gentle that Stiles refuses to look at him. He can’t, not when there’s a growing pressure behind his eyes which has nothing to do with being tired.

He resolutely keeps his gaze on the coffeemaker (which might be the slowest in the world) and waves towards Peter in as casual a manner as he can. “Just tell me what you want.”

Peter comes over to rest his forearms on the island so he can lean slightly over it. Stiles switches his focus to the navy blue sleeves of Peter’s henley so he doesn’t have to meet his eyes. 

“I want you to have a good morning, Stiles.”

Stiles blinks a few times then snaps his head up to look at Peter. “What?”

“I think that’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“But…you said you wanted something.” No one throws Stiles completely off-balance the way Peter does; he rarely sees it coming. “You said…” 

“And I do want something. I just told you what it was.” Peter pushes himself back to standing. “Is that really so hard to believe?” He’s watching Stiles, and whatever he finds doesn’t leave him happy. “It is, isn’t it?”

Stiles is reeling from an overwhelming rush of relief as his anxiety fades. Peter isn’t – he’s not trying to –

And then he feels a wash of shame, which drowns out the relief. “I wasn’t trying to imply…” He bites his thumbnail, then catches himself and stops. He’s never thrilled talking about his insecurities. “I know you don’t do that kind of thing. I knew it didn’t make sense! I just thought…”

Peter takes a seat on the bar stool next to Stiles, facing him directly. “You thought I might have changed my mind?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits, resting his elbows on the counter and wrapping his hands around the back of his neck. He isn’t entirely sure how to explain. “Maybe. To teach me a lesson or…well, you know. I’ve told you…” He risks a glance at Peter to find him resting an arm on the island, and though the posture is casual, he’s as intent as Stiles has ever seen him. “I’m used to people wanting things from me… _Expecting_ things from me.”

Peter’s nodding. “I have plenty of personal experience with that, as well. I don’t like it any more than you do.” He pauses, studying Stiles, then gestures between them. “You know that’s not how we are? That’s not what this is.”

“I know.” Stiles rubs his temples because the pressure around his eyes has gotten worse. “It’s…easy to…”

“…fall back into patterns of thinking that have been reinforced your whole life?” Peter suggests.

“Yeah.” And what’s Peter doing except proving that he’s the exact _opposite_ of the people Stiles had been measuring him against? “I shouldn’t have –”

“No,” Peter breaks in, recognizing where Stiles is heading. “You’re not going to apologize or berate yourself. And I’m not upset, I’m only reminding you…” Peter suddenly gets up and paces a few steps away, a rare display of how affected he is by this conversation. When he turns back around, he seems perfectly composed, but there’s a storm in his eyes. “You are not…a _resource_ for me, Stiles. I don’t plan how I interact with you based upon what I think will guarantee me some future return for my investment. I wouldn’t treat you that way.” His voice drops to something much darker when he adds, “Anyone who does is not your friend.”

Stiles nods, because he knows that (and also, he doesn’t trust himself to speak). Peter has moved closer, setting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder while he searches his eyes. He must find whatever he’s looking for because his grip tightens briefly before he goes to start gathering things to make the coffee. 

Stiles watches him, but he’s not really focusing on the present moment. He’s thinking about the fact that Peter had gotten upset, even _angry_ on his behalf. It’s not the first time. Peter never reacts well when he hears the stories Stiles reveals here and there, incidents from his past where people had used him or hurt him, intentionally or not. Nor does Peter like the reminder that Stiles had become so conditioned to the treatment that he tends to expect it by default. Peter’s always reminding Stiles that he values who he is, as a _person_ , above all else. 

Stiles is fairly certain Peter has embraced that perspective because he’s worked tirelessly to reshape his _own_ life. He’s not the same man he used to be. Peter Hale wants to be judged based upon his actions now and going forward, not by his past. It’s well-established that he had a brief run-in with insanity, awakening from his coma to find a completely different world. A world where most of his family, his _pack_ , was gone. A world where his previous life had been completely obliterated and could never be restored. It took time for him to accept it, but Peter had slowly regained himself and reacclimated to his new reality as well as anyone could be expected to, as far as Stiles was concerned. 

It’s certainly better than Stiles would fare, he knows, if he woke up one day to the reality that his entire pack had been murdered. To know that he’d tried to stop it, and failed, and the killers had walked free. The thought of finding out his dad was gone, along with Scott and Lydia, Allison and Malia, Derek and Cora and all the rest. _Everyone_. Hell, he’d even miss Jackson, he thinks. And Peter – _how would he survive without Peter?_

No, Stiles wouldn’t deal well with that at all – sometimes he thinks he’d decide to burn the world down and _never stop_. (He had no idea how Peter stopped, to be honest, and when he asked him that once, Peter had shrugged and said, “All of you, that’s how I stopped.”)

So yes, Peter had worked through his anger. He’d shifted his focus to building a relationship with Malia and mending fences with his nieces and nephew. Laura lives in New York, focused on building her own pack, but Cora and Derek had remained in Beacon Hills, and over time Peter’s relationships with all three had been rebuilt. From there, Peter had worked his way into all of their lives. It was impossible for him not to when he was _always around_.

At first, he’d been a convenient ally who helped from the periphery, then he’d eventually become one of their group, and finally – after much discussion among them all – he’d reformed the Hale pack based upon the original model run by his late sister. And that single event had been the most stabilizing thing to ever happen in Stiles’ life. (In all of their lives, probably.)

For the first time since his earliest and most carefree high school days, Stiles could _breathe again_. He no longer has to watch the people he loves get hurt on a regular basis, no longer has to drag himself and his friends back from death’s door every other week. He doesn’t have to figure out how to save the town (and everyone in it) while hiding the real truth from too many people, including his dad. That responsibility, which had been suffocating him for years, is _gone_. He has a freedom he never thought he’d experience again – the kind he’d thought was lost the moment he learned the truth about the supernatural. 

Living in fear is oppressive. It’s invisible, but always there, all-consuming. It hurts on every front, in every way. Stiles had never been so aware of how integral _safety_ was to a decent life until it had been ripped away from him. Now that he has it back? He’ll do anything and everything in his power to hold onto it (and he’s never going to take it for granted again).

Nothing’s ever perfect – there will always be dangers in the world, both human and supernatural – but they live in relative peace now. The effects of having a stable pack and territory had spread throughout the entire town. Once they’d gotten the supernatural element under control, the toll on the (mostly) human police department was significantly lessened. Stiles had been able to stop worrying his dad was going to work himself into an early grave because he had to solve a series of murders every other week without knowing half the battle he was up against. 

His dad most certainly knows about everything now, and though he’d been wary at first – especially upon learning Stiles was _already_ part of the Hale pack and it wasn’t something Noah could object to or undo – he’d learned to accept it. The sheriff had come to trust Peter, and a lot of that has to do with the fact that not only is Stiles still alive, but his near-death experiences have dropped by approximately 99% in the last year. (As long as Stiles continues to enjoy those types of benefits, his dad will always be on Peter’s side.)

Their pack hadn’t existed in its current form a year ago, yet it’s become one of the most important things in Stiles’ life. He honestly doesn’t think he could live without it. Or, more accurately, even if he _could_? He’d never want to.

And that’s thanks to Peter Hale.

“You asked me a question a few minutes ago,” Stiles says, as Peter takes some coffee mugs down from one of the cabinets. “If it was hard for me to believe that all you wanted was for me to have a good morning.”

Peter turns back to face him, quizzically. “I remember.”

“And I didn’t answer you,” Stiles continues. “But just now, I was thinking…you’re Peter Hale.”

Peter’s brief grin is a little too sharp. “That statement is generally followed by something I perceive as complimentary but which everyone else believes is an insult.”

 _That’s_ … _well, that's unacceptable to Stiles_. They all frequently make jokes at each other’s expenses, and they’re all pretty good sports about it because there’s no malice behind the teasing, but still… They should all hear kind things, too – especially someone who’s given as much as Peter has. (Stiles will have to remedy that more often, which happens to coincide nicely with what he was already planning to say.) 

“You’re Peter Hale,” Stiles repeats firmly, and the open honesty of what he’s saying makes him want to look away from Peter, but he refuses. “So no…it’s not hard for me to believe that all you want is for me to have a good morning.”

The moment between them stretches until Peter says, seriously, “Thank you, Stiles.” The tightness around his eyes fades as he smiles, slowly, and it’s kind of amazing for Stiles to witness. (He’d be fine with having that effect on Peter _all the time_.) “I’m glad you believe me, because that _is_ all I want.”

Stiles suspects his own smile in return is a lot more affectionate than he means it to be. That’s when the coffee machine chimes, indicating it’s finally done (after all these years) and Stiles, with poorly disguised impatience, watches Peter return to it. Peter had obviously bought something with a million different settings and it takes way too long in Stiles’ opinion. As if that’s not bad enough, Peter then takes his time preparing it after the fact; it’ll be at least another minute or two before he deems it drinkable. Honestly, Stiles would be fine with instant coffee, but Peter (open elitist that he is) literally recoils every time Stiles mentions it.

Obviously, that means Stiles mentions it all the time. “I’m gonna buy some instant coffee,” he announces, as he slides off the bar stool and heads for the fridge with minimal fatigue-related stumbling.

Peter literally recoils, and Stiles bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Your poorly refined palate genuinely pains me, darling.”

“Make sure you add enough sugar,” Stiles needlessly reminds him.

“Of course,” Peter says easily. “We wouldn’t want your coffee to ever mistakenly taste like…coffee.”

Stiles gives in to his laughter as he opens the fridge, rummaging around for his stash of energy drinks that he thought – _aha!_ Right under a pack of Cora’s yogurt. He usually saves the energy shots for late night study sessions – which are thankfully a lot more common now than the late night ‘trying not to die’ sessions – but he had a pretty terrible night’s sleep, so he thinks one is warranted this morning.

He’s barely twisted off the cap when Peter’s stealing it from him. “Hey!” he exclaims, lunging to try and get it back, but Peter is a wolf and he uses that fact to evade Stiles multiple times per day.

Peter’s reading the label with increasing disapproval. “This is equivalent to three cups of coffee.”

“Uh, yeah.” He tries to grab it but Peter expertly outmaneuvers him again by…stepping away. “That’s the point.”

“I assume you took Adderall today because you have two early classes.”

“Yeah, I did.” Stiles doesn’t see what – _ah, yes he does_. This is what happens when he isn’t fully awake yet – he temporarily forgets things like the fact that Adderall and excessive caffeine don’t mix together well for him. He can handle one cup of coffee with it and that’s about it. “Perhaps I should skip that,” he admits, handing Peter the cap.

“You think?” Peter asks, twisting it back on. “And while I still believe this is way too much for _you_ to take at once, the most I’m going to ask is that you save it for an afternoon or evening that’s more than 15 minutes removed from taking your regular medication.” He tosses the drink back into the top drawer of the fridge door. “I’d like to avoid a day spent in our town’s lovely E.R. because you’re suffering from an arrhythmia or heart palpitations.”

“Aww,” Stiles places a hand over the very heart in question, “you’d come to the hospital with me?”

“I wouldn’t trust you to actually show up otherwise,” Peter says flippantly, pushing Stiles back toward the island as he goes to finish up with the coffee.

“You say that like you don’t think I’m a responsible adult, _Alpha Hale_.” Stiles retakes his former seat as Peter starts measuring out sugar.

“See, when you say my name that way, all I hear is the mocking.”

“And you’re astute, as well!” Stiles makes a show of slow clapping as Peter side eyes him in warning.

“I could pour your coffee right down the drain.”

Stiles hums thoughtfully. “But would you?”

Peter’s expression doesn’t change, which could mean _literally anything_. 

“You wouldn’t,” Stiles insists, with a confidence borne of the fact that Peter (generally) doesn’t try to enrage him.

“If I thought it would make any difference in your level of respect for me, I might.”

“I’ll take that as a nooo,” Stiles practically crows, as Peter glances away with a theatrical huff, but not before Stiles sees his amusement. “And you know I respect you.” His voice is light, but the statement is true no matter how many jokes they exchange that seem to indicate the opposite. (It’s not Stiles’ fault that driving Peter crazy is so much _fun_.) “I _did_ use your official title,” he reminds Peter. “Is that not a sign of respect, oh alpha, my alpha?”

Peter, who’d been about to take a sip of coffee, freezes in time not to choke on it. “Stiles.” It seems like he wants to go on, but is at a loss for what to say.

“Is that my coffee?” Stiles demands, holding his hands out as Peter tests the drink. “I want it. _Now_.” Peter ignores him (with the ease of someone well-practiced) and sets the mug down, adding more sugar to it. “Peter. Why are you moving in slow motion?”

Peter seems a little concerned when he glances at Stiles. “Honey. This is regular speed.”

“It can’t beee…” Stiles’ level of whining might increase proportionally to how tired (or bored) he is. He watches with growing unhappiness as Peter tastes the coffee again. “Peterrr. How much do you hate me?” 

Peter finally, _finally_ comes back to set the mug in front of Stiles, stepping up close behind him to whisper, “I assure you, sweetheart, not at all.”

Stiles smiles at that, letting the words warm him from the inside out, and tilts his head without consciously thinking about it. Peter’s low rumble of approval as he breathes in along his shoulder only makes Stiles grin wider. Scenting and scent-marking had been one of the strangest things for him to acclimate to in regards to being in an ‘official’ pack, but by now he doesn’t think twice about it. He might even _like_ it as much as the wolves do, if that’s possible for a human. 

It’s hard for Stiles to dislike people wanting to be around him. Wanting to touch him. Stiles had never realized how much he wanted that – how much he _needed_ it – until he’d started experiencing regular, friendly affection as part of the Hale pack. He doesn’t think he could ever go back to living the way he did before, when the only times he ever touched anyone were occasional hugs with his dad or Scott after something emotional (read: one of them nearly died). It hadn’t taken long to get used to this strange reality where people felt free to engage in platonic intimacy – simply enjoying the comfort of being physically close to their friends – and the astonishing fact that they liked it with _Stiles_?

 _Hell yes_ , he’d very quickly decided he’d take that every day, _forever_ , thanks.

Peter finishes his perusal of Stiles’ neck with a playful nip to the side of it, causing Stiles to slosh the (hot but not scalding) liquid in the coffee mug he’d wrapped his hand around literally one second before. “Jesus, Peter. I swear you time that kind of thing on purpose.”

“I would never,” Peter protests, and his voice is so unwavering that even Stiles might believe him…except he’s Peter.

Stiles glances around for a kitchen towel, but there’s nothing nearby. “That almost burned me,” he says carefully, because he knows Peter. It’s the perfect bait.

“It’s not hot enough by now.” Peter looks over Stiles’ shoulder to check his hand anyways. “I wouldn’t have done that if you could have been hurt.”

“Do you want to rephrase that, counselor?” Stiles tips his head to smile up at him. “Because that sounds like an admission of guilt to me.”

Peter laughs shortly once he realizes what Stiles did. “Entrapment aside, then fine, I admit it. Consider it payback for your _continual_ disrespect.”

Peter makes the mistake of saying that while still standing behind and slightly above Stiles, because the man has never heard of the term ‘personal space’ let alone been inclined to use it. Stiles doesn’t mind that tendency of Peter’s, but he appreciates it all the more now for how easily it allows him to casually slide his coffee-covered hand back to dry on the front of Peter’s shirt.

Peter growls at him, a lot more warning than it is playful. Too bad Stiles has never met a warning he didn’t love to ignore, especially when it comes from Peter. He might live to do the exact opposite of what the alpha wants just for the thrill of it. (He likes to live on the edge of _danger that’s not really danger,_ because Peter would never actually hurt him, no matter how far Stiles pushed.)

“I refuse to be intimidated,” Stiles cheers, swiveling to try and do it again (even though his hand is basically dry by this point). Peter evades him, flicking his ear in chastisement, and Stiles lurches backwards, an overreaction which would have sent him tumbling off the stool if Peter hadn’t grabbed his arm to prevent it.

“ _Please_ get through the rest of the morning without spraining or breaking anything.”

“No promises,” Stiles says sheepishly, noting the shot of adrenaline had woken him more than anything yet this morning. (Too bad it’ll be short-lived.)

“I live with animals,” Peter haughtily complains, as he rounds the island to stand opposite Stiles. He’s dabbing at his shirt with a towel he must have procured from thin air. “And I don’t mean the wolves.”

“You made me spill the coffee, so it’s only fair you helped me clean up.”

“Ah, thank you for explaining,” Peter says wryly. “Wiping coffee all over me is…helping you clean up.” He gives up on his shirt and tosses the towel to Stiles so he can dry the few drops remaining on the counter. “This kind of thing is why I stopped buying designer clothing.”

“Good one,” Stiles scoffs, sipping his coffee and closing his eyes in enjoyment for a moment. It’s about 10% coffee and 90% sugar, exactly the way he likes it. When he opens his eyes again, Peter is watching him. “You weren’t joking.”

“I learned a while ago that based upon the rate you and the others ruin my clothes –” Peter holds his arms out in illustration, “– I could sadly no longer enjoy the kind of luxury I was used to. I had to start buying… _off the rack_.” He actually shudders, because Peter Hale is the most dramatic person Stiles has ever met.

“My God,” Stiles gasps, “how have you survived?” 

“On a lot of poly-cotton blends,” Peter quips so dryly that Stiles almost snorts his coffee. Peter pulls at the bottom of his still-damp henley. “See this? It came in a 3-pack that I ordered online. I guessed at the size!”

“I hope you recognize how cosmically absurd it is that you can buy clothing virtually blind and still look…” He waves a hand at Peter, not sure if he’s properly containing his envy, “…like _that_.” It confirms every observation Stiles has ever made that the world is incredibly unfair.

“Why, Stiles,” Peter rests his hands on the opposite side of the island so he can lean over it towards him, “what do I look like?”

Stiles’ heart skips (because Peter is the most diabolical kind of attractive – he’s exceedingly aware of it and shamelessly uses it to his every advantage). Stiles refuses to show any outward reaction other than squinting at him over the top of his coffee. “As if you don’t have eyes.”

“It’s okay to admit it out loud,” Peter soothes, so smugly condescending that Stiles wonders if it’s worth sacrificing the perfect cup of coffee if the pay-off is that he gets to throw it all over Peter. “And let’s be honest,” the alpha’s continuing, “what _wouldn’t_ look good on me?”

Stiles tilts his mug back and forth. “The rest of this coffee, perhaps?”

Peter flicks his gaze between the drink and Stiles’ face. “Nah, I could pull it off.”

Stiles is set to deny it, but… “Ugh, you _could_.” It would only make Peter’s shirt cling more perfectly, wouldn’t it? _Unfair. The whole damn world is unfair_. 

Peter winks at him, like can see right into Stiles’ mind, and it causes his stomach to flip. Or maybe that’s the excessive amount of sugar in the coffee. (Yes, that’s probably it.) 

“Once I got used to wearing the clothing of you ordinary citizens –” Peter begins, causing Stiles to launch the towel back at his head; Peter catches it without pausing, “– I realized it wasn’t _all_ terrible. I’m a fan of the cotton/spandex blend that’s so popular nowadays.” Peter appears to be in _genuine thought_. “It holds its shape all day while still being breathable.” 

“I’m so happy the clothing of us commonfolk has managed to meet your impeccably high standards.”

“Yes, I was shocked,” Peter mutters, without any self-awareness, as he fixes his own cup of coffee. When he returns to the island, it’s so he can retake his former seat next to Stiles, facing him like earlier. (Stiles, meanwhile, continues to rely on the counter to keep him from sliding right onto the floor.) “I’m glad you made the sensible choice,” Peter tells him, which…yeah, Stiles has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Huh?”

“The sensible choice. To not try and throw your coffee at me.”

“I was only joking before,” Stiles tries to claim, AKA lies through his teeth. (He _might_ have thrown various foods at Peter on…multiple occasions in the past.) “I never seriously contemplated it.”

“Your tells are varied and many, my darling.” Peter takes a sip of his (much more bitter than Stiles’) coffee. “We’re going to have to work on that.”

“Yes, please help me get more things by you than I usually do,” Stiles begs, faux sweetly. (He wonders if his tells are truly ‘varied and many’? He doesn’t tend to think so, but that would mean Peter is even more unnervingly accurate at reading him…and which is a scarier thought?)

“It’s probably impossible for you to learn how to outmaneuver me, considering I can hear when you lie. But the others…oh yes, that’d be no problem.”

“Most of our pack can hear when I lie,” Stiles points out.

“That’s why you have to distract them from listening.”

“Then couldn’t I learn to distract _you_ from listening?”

“No,” Peter denies, maddeningly, “because I know _when_ to listen.”

“ _How?_ ” Stiles demands. Peter is like some kind of _supernatural detective_ what with how often he reads Stiles’ mind as if it’s an open book. Any tips on counteracting that power would be most welcome.

“Your tells are varied and many,” Peter repeats, laughing when Stiles scowls and clenches his mug. “Case in point.”

Stiles very carefully removes his hands from his drink and holds them up. “I am choosing not to drench you with coffee because I am making a mature decision.”

“Hmm, yes, that’s why.” Peter sets his own mug down, twisting it back and forth on the counter. “It has nothing to do with the fact that you wouldn’t succeed.”

“I could totally succeed!”

Peter’s look is so pitying that Stiles is even _more_ tempted to throw his coffee. _And Peter damn well knows it_. “I’m faster than you.”

“And yet, despite that, you somehow didn’t stop me from drying my hand all over your shirt,” Stiles triumphantly points out.

Peter has to pause for a few seconds to figure out how to explain that one away. “Sneak attack,” he settles for saying. “Outside the bounds and completely unfair.” Stiles is about to argue it’s still a ‘win’ when Peter warmly adds, “I wholeheartedly approve.”

 _Of course he does_. “Approval from you is generally a warning that I’m straying too far from the righteous path.” 

“Yes, I’m dragging you further to the dark side by the day.” Peter demonstrates as much by hooking his foot around the rung at the bottom of Stiles’ bar stool so he can pull him closer; Stiles (naturally) almost spills his coffee when he has to reflexively grab the counter to keep his balance.

“Peterrr,” he whines, relinquishing his death grip on the island only after Peter holds a hand up in concession that he won’t do it again. “It’s too early for this.”

“No such thing as too early!” Erica announces cheerfully, as she sweeps into the kitchen with a bright smile for both of them. Peter nods in greeting while Stiles stifles a pained groan. Erica doesn’t love mornings so much as she enjoys pretending she does solely to torture Stiles. “Are you boys at war already?” she chides, heading straight for the coffee.

Stiles sighs at the general lack of privacy in a _house with wolves_. She’d obviously been listening to them before she’d entered the kitchen. “It’s not my fault that Peter constantly provokes me.”

Peter casts aside blame as easily as he does humility. “You started it.”

“Untrue!” Stiles exclaims. “You provoked me first. I’m sure of it. …Right?” He tries to recall the exact order of this morning’s events, but ultimately has to give up, admitting, “It’s hard to remember from one day to the next.” (A lot of their days unfold _exactly_ like this one.)

He looks to Peter in silent question, but the other man shrugs, indicating he has no idea who’d actually been to blame this time around (and neither of them really cares).

“Maybe whoever acted _first_ isn’t the point,” Erica says slowly, as they glance at her. “You could _both_ try not provoking the other?”

Stiles tries to envision that reality, then turns to Peter. “ _Could_ we?”

Peter taps a finger against his mouth in thought, eyes sweeping over Stiles like he _really has to think about this_. “I don’t believe we could, no.”

Stiles is hit with an overwhelming rush of relief he can’t fully explain. “Yeah, I don’t think I’d like it.”

Peter tilts his head thoughtfully. “No?”

“No.” Stiles is failing to hide his delight at this turn in the conversation. “I can’t imagine a life where I’m not trying to aggravate you as much as possible, at all times.”

Peter’s expression betrays nothing, but his eyes are laughing. “I can’t imagine it, either.” 

“That almost sounds sweet,” Stiles says, cautiously. “But then I also realize it could be taken as an insult…”

“Can’t it be both?” Peter gamely suggests.

Stiles laughs at that. “Let’s not forget that you enjoy aggravating me right back.”

“Oh no, I’m not admitting to that,” Peter balks. “When _you_ do it, you’re trying to aggravate me. When I do it, it’s…engaging in witty repartee and playful banter.”

“Ah, Stiles,” Erica’s sighing, as she savors her own coffee, “thank you for keeping his focus off the rest of us.”

“That doesn’t make me suspicious at all,” Peter says, under his breath. 

“You’re very welcome,” Stiles assures Erica. (Seriously, who _wouldn’t_ want to be the complete focus of Peter’s attention? It baffles him that anyone could feel the opposite.)

Erica looks between them a few times, opening her mouth like she’s going to speak, but then she just pulls some bread out of one of the drawers and starts making toast.

“You should have something to eat,” Peter tells Stiles.

He grimaces at the suggestion. He’s too tired this morning and food never appeals to him when he feels this way. “I’m not really hungry.”

“You should still eat something,” Peter insists, using his foot to turn the bar stool Stiles is sitting on back and forth. Peter is _terrifyingly_ effective at wearing Stiles down by degrees (and while those degrees are intended to annoy him, they never actually _hurt_ ; in fact, they usually just make him laugh, even through the annoyance).

“I’ll try,” Stiles finally huffs, kicking at Peter’s foot, though he can’t stop his smile. He motions at Erica to throw some bread into the toaster for him, because Peter does have a point. If he doesn’t eat anything now he’ll be starving later and probably feeling sick by 9 or 10.

At least the coffee is beginning to work. It feels like his systems are slowly coming back online. Which isn’t to say he’s not still tired, but he’s feeling ever more confident in his ability to safely get to school.

A minute later, Erica drops a plate of…what _she_ must call ‘toast’ in front of him. The bread has been toasted to within an inch of its life. She might have removed it mere seconds before it caught on fire. “Ericaaa,” he whines, pushing the plate a few inches away in protest.

“You wanted toast.” Erica takes a bite of hers, crunching loudly enough that he can hear it across the kitchen. “This is how I make toast.”

“It’s burned.”

“It is not,” she protests. “And I don’t remember you giving instructions on how to prepare it, my Lord.”

“Peter,” Stiles pleads, realizing he’ll be getting nowhere with Erica. “I can’t eat this.”

“I’ll make you some more,” Peter offers, as he goes to do just that.

“You spoil him,” Erica’s admonishing Peter. “When you give in to his tantrums –”

“I am not having a tantrum!” Stiles exclaims, crossing his arms and glaring at her petulantly.

“This is what you encourage,” she tells Peter. “This sort of behavior.”

Peter’s completely unmoved by her scolding. “He won’t feel well later if he doesn’t eat now.”

“Then maybe he’d learn his lesson,” she says archly. “And next time he would eat what I so lovingly prepared for him.”

“I assure you I won’t be learning any lessons,” Stiles says obstinately. “Also, you threw some bread into an appliance, stop acting like you prepared a four-course meal.”

“Do you see the way he talks to me?” Erica demands of Peter, who sighs and tips his head back to stare at the ceiling.

Stiles switches his gaze between them with growing horror. “Oh no,” he whispers, “I can’t tell if this is my worst nightmare or deepest fantasy come to life.” When Peter and Erica both turn to him with twin expressions of disbelief, he freezes. “Did I say that out loud?” Erica starts cackling as Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not my fault that you’re both so unfairly attractive!” 

“I think we’re confusing the poor boy,” Erica says, positively gleeful as she links arms with Peter. “Want to tell us more, Stiles, dear?”

“Okay, yup,” Stiles nods vigorously, “thanks for confirming that it’s definitely my worst nightmare.”

“Stop torturing him,” Peter orders, as he pats Erica’s arm. “He can’t handle it at this time of day.”

“Yes, stop torturing me,” Stiles says plaintively, then looks at Peter. “And I take offense at that! Even though you’re right.”

Erica enjoys another aggressively loud bite of toast and Peter shakes her off so he can retrieve the new batch, tossing it onto Stiles’ plate; it’s perfectly toasted (that is, hardly at all).

“Take note,” Stiles tells Erica, as Peter returns to sit next to him, “this is what toast should look like.”

Erica’s beyond unimpressed. “That’s not toast, it’s warm bread,” she concludes, as Peter bursts out laughing. She passes Stiles a knife and the butter she’d used on her own questionable taste in breakfast. “I bet it barely crunches.”

Stiles takes an enthusiastic bite to spite her. “It’s perfect.” (It really is.) He salutes Peter with the piece he’s holding. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Peter says, which is…actually true. He’s usually the one coaxing Stiles to eat something in the morning – especially when it’s this early – and Stiles’ typical price is that Peter makes it for him. (They’re both fairly accomplished at cooking in their own right, but Stiles prefers to do it much later in the day, when he isn’t at elevated risk of passing out on the stove.)

“And thank you for the…attempt,” Stiles begrudgingly tells Erica. Low-effort or not, she _had_ been trying to make him breakfast (it wasn’t strictly her fault that she hadn’t known he wouldn’t find it edible). Her smile in return tells him she’d never taken any real offense to begin with.

“Morning, guys,” Scott says as he enters the kitchen and heads right for the coffee like Erica had. 

“I appreciate the lack of ‘good’ in that greeting,” Stiles says approvingly.

“Just for you, buddy,” Scott replies, pouring the last of the coffee into his regular mug and setting the machine to make more. Scott isn’t a morning person, per se, but he’s as naturally cheerful in the morning as he _ever_ is. (He tries to tone it down a little around Stiles so as not to rub it in, and Stiles loves him to no end for it.)

“Why are you up so early?” Erica asks, finishing her heavily charred bread and setting her plate in the dishwasher. Scott’s usual shift doesn’t start until 10, so it’s unusual to see him at this time of morning.

“I put it in the calendar," Scott says, referring to the shared calendar app that’s linked between the entire pack (and those pack-adjacent) so they can share pertinent information about their schedules. "I promised Deaton I’d help him unload a shipment of supplies before we open.” He’s tossing around various packages of granola bars as he searches through one of the cupboards. “He’s letting me out a couple hours early in exchange.”

Like Stiles, Scott doesn’t technically live at the Hale house, but based upon how often he stays over, he might as well. (At this rate, Stiles doesn’t think they’re ever going to ‘officially’ move in so much as they’re going to wake up one day and realize they already did.)

“Mornings,” Stiles says succinctly, after another sip of coffee, “are a nightmarish hellscape.”

“Yes.” Scott looks around the peaceful room, then out at the sunshine illuminating the gorgeous autumn day taking shape past the kitchen windows. “I can see that.”

“They _feel_ like a nightmarish hellscape,” Stiles corrects, pushing his bar stool a couple feet over to take advantage of Peter sitting right there by using him to stay upright. The alpha’s long-used to Stiles’ preference for close proximity and doesn't react other than to shift a little so Stiles can lean more comfortably against his side.

“Rough night?” Scott asks sympathetically.

“That’s putting it lightly,” Stiles answers, tensing when he thinks back on it. He sleeps a lot better than he used to before they were a stable pack, but he still has a veritable menagerie of nightmares that will most likely never leave him. Peter feels his reaction, bringing his hand up to rub his thumb along the back of Stiles’ neck until he relaxes again. 

Unfortunately, as toned down as Scott might aim for in the mornings, he’ll forever be a persistently cheerful optimist who can’t help himself. “Looks like your morning’s making up for it, though?”

“Watch yourself,” Stiles warns, not awake enough yet to admit such a thing.

Scott holds up his hands. “Sorry, my mistake. Your morning looks terrible. What with sipping your coffee…and eating your toast…” 

_How dare Scott use actual evidence to demonstrate the truth!_ “Both of those were forced upon me.”

“You would have tackled me for that coffee if I’d taken any longer,” Peter says mildly, without looking up from where he’s sorting through a pile of forgotten papers and ignored mail that’s built up at the end of the island.

“Sshhh,” Stiles whispers, lightly elbowing him in the side, “we don’t tolerate your interpretation of events here.”

“It’s the _truth_ ,” Peter says dryly.

“Which is why we can’t tolerate it here,” Stiles gripes. “It’s like you aren’t listening to me, Peter.” 

“Trust me, that would be…” Peter trails off, his tone of wry scolding changing to fond resignation. “Impossible.” 

Stiles laughs, feeling a lot lighter than he has all morning thus far. “I make it my job, have you noticed?”

“I have,” Peter says, pushing his weight against Stiles, who’s still leaning on him. “You are, quite literally, impossible to ignore.”

“As if you’d ever ignore him, regardless,” Erica murmurs from across the way, while checking her phone. Peter tries to stare her down but it fails spectacularly when she obliviously keeps swiping through various screens.

“So Stiles,” Scott begins, in the needling way he has that means Stiles isn’t going to like where he’s going. “Has your morning gotten better since I asked 30 seconds ago? I see smiling, laughing…” 

“Nope, still miserable,” Stiles claims. He returns to slowly eating his breakfast, trying to decide if it’s waking up his appetite or if that will be impossible this morning.

“I never knew someone could be miserable while looking so happy,” Scott continues to prod.

Stiles holds up his toast, studying it, then eyes Scott contemplatively.

“Stiles,” Peter warns.

“Stop reading my mind,” he hisses, without looking away from Scott.

Scott does a double take at him when he glances up from the box of breakfast bars he’s searching through. “Are you thinking about throwing your toast at me? Best bros don’t throw food at each other!”

“They most certainly do,” Stiles argues, as Peter pointedly clears his throat. He briefly considers throwing the toast at Peter instead, but they’re too close for him to get a good angle. (And besides that, he doesn’t want Peter to move.) “But I’ll spare you today,” he tells Scott, feeling generous.

“Appreciate it, buddy.” Scott is trying (and somehow failing) to open one of the breakfast bars. Within three more seconds of Scott’s fumbling, Erica rips it from his hand to tear open with her teeth, then throws it back at him.

“That was so hot,” Stiles breathes, without thinking. 

“I would eat you _alive_ ,” she promises, flashing him a wicked grin and tossing her hair. 

_Stiles has no doubt and every fear_. “Please don’t.” He unconsciously presses a little closer to Peter, making a mental note to ask Boyd how he’s survived with her for so long.

“Erica,” Peter hums in reminder. “Too early for this.”

“Know what it was,” Scott’s complaining in the background, as he examines the wrapper that had gotten the better of him, “I just put on hand lotion so I couldn’t get a good grip.”

Erica opens her mouth with a glint in her eyes, but Peter snaps his fingers and points at her. “Absolutely not.” 

“But the joke writes itself!” she wails.

“What are you guys –” Scott looks up from where he’s been eating while reading the wrapper. It takes him a few seconds to replay the conversation, but then he adorably starts spluttering, “Wha– I – Erica!”

Erica’s clearly elated with his reaction, despite not having told whatever her joke might have been. “It’s your fault for getting up at the same time as me,” she accuses, expertly avoiding all blame. (It’s easy to perfect that ability while living with Peter.) 

“My hands were _dry_ ,” Scott insists, sulking a little, and the most hilarious part is everyone knows he’s telling the truth. Scott also knows to quit with Erica while he’s already behind, quickly scanning the room and settling on their alpha (probably as the safest option to move on). “Why are you up so early, Peter?”

“I get up in the mornings because I’m an adult, Scott.”

Stiles peers around the man’s arm to find that he’s currently skimming through a catalogue dedicated to hand-crafted European dress shoes – which cost over 20 times what any pair of Stiles’ has ever been worth – because Peter Hale is ridiculous. “I thought you didn’t buy expensive clothing anymore.”

“Not for home,” Peter clarifies, “but I need to look good when representing my clients.”

“I’m surprised no one in this house has _become_ one of your clients yet,” Erica snickers.

“Give it time,” Stiles says, optimistically.

“Do not jinx me,” Peter sternly orders. “Either of you.”

Scott is scrolling through his phone. “I figured you were up early for a meeting,” he explains to Peter, “but I didn’t remember seeing anything on the calendar.”

“I don’t have anything,” Peter confirms. 

“Peter doesn’t schedule things before 9,” Stiles explains, because he thought they knew that; Peter works from home, so his schedule is whatever he wants it to be and varies by the day.

“And yet…” Erica begins thoughtfully. “He’s usually up when I’m getting ready for work around dawn.” She motions at Stiles. “But only on the days _you_ have class.”

 _What?_ It’s only a few weeks into the fall semester, but…Peter _has_ been up every morning that Stiles had class. He’d taken it for granted that Peter had some reason to be awake this early; he’d had no idea the reason might be _him_.

“You’re kidding.” Stiles sits up more fully so he can give Peter a playful shove. “You do not get up early to ensure I make it out the door.” 

“Mere coincidence,” Peter claims, though it’s belied by his smile.

“Uh huh.” Stiles props his head on his hand as he studies Peter. “You can’t stalk me when we practically live in the same house, you know.”

“I think he’s proven he can,” Erica smirks.

“And I can get out of here fine on my own,” Stiles protests. Then he has to add, for the sake of honesty (and the three of them _staring at him_ ), “…Usually.”

“As we learned during your spring semester,” Peter begins explaining, “you have a habit of getting up and then subsequently falling asleep in random places.”

“Jeez, fall asleep in the laundry room, and under your bed, and in the shower a _few_ _times_ –”

“Then you’re late or miss class altogether,” Peter (wisely) interrupts the start of his rant. “And then you’re in a terrible mood for the rest of the day and I hate that.” Peter waves his hand vaguely in a circle, indicating the whole house. Or maybe the whole pack. “We all hate that.”

That surprises Stiles almost as much as hearing Peter gets up early with him by design, but this new information sets him on the defensive. Is he really that difficult to be around when he’s having a bad day? Had they all talked about it? (Had Peter drawn the short straw of getting him off to class? Or did it fall to him as the alpha because no one else wanted to do it?) 

“I’m not that bad, am I?” Stiles glances among his friends, quickly continuing, “Okay, maybe on my worst days I’m a little annoying, or sulk more, or whatever, but that’s no worse than anyone else around here.” Erica and Scott only seem confused, so he adds, “I try not to take my moods out on other people, either. Because I hate when people do that to me.”

“Stiles.” Peter helps draw his attention back by tapping on his hand. “I didn’t mean that we hate being _with_ you when you’re having a bad day. I meant that we hate _when you’re having a bad day_.”

Scott’s nodding and beaming at him, his confusion gone. “Yeah, dude, you should always have good days.”

“Aw, thanks, buddy.” Stiles tries to keep his voice light, but it’s probably a lost cause when he’s affected as much as he is. He reaches across the island to fist bump Scott. His best friend always knows exactly what to say – they just get each other like that.

“You two are so sappy,” Erica sniffs, then levels her gaze on Stiles. “And how could you – one of the smartest people I know – possibly think Peter meant we hated having you around?” She shakes her head and turns away to start rinsing out her coffee mug. (Stiles is glad she didn’t expect an answer because he never has a good one when it comes to his self-esteem issues; nothing more than a myriad of life events which add up to him reaching conclusions that – as time goes on – are increasingly wrong.)

Stiles glances at Peter, who’s stolen a piece of forgotten toast from his plate. “So you decided to make it your personal mission to keep me awake in the mornings?”

Peter tips the toast back and forth. “Something like that.”

That’s a _Peter Hale answer_ if Stiles has ever heard one (and trust that he’s heard a lot). Peter is simultaneously agreeing and disagreeing. Yet no one notices or questions it, except Stiles. He notices those kinds of answers even if he doesn’t always know what they mean.

“Something like that,” Stiles slowly repeats, as Peter watches him speculatively. _That’s Peter_. Always watching. (Peter Hale analyzes everyone and everything he lays his eyes upon, and he _never stops_ ; it’s why they’re the safest they’ve ever been.) 

_Something like that_ , indeed.

“Gotta get going or I’ll be late,” Scott’s saying, as he suddenly shifts into high gear, rushing around the kitchen to grab his keys, sunglasses, and various other items scattered about. He pauses long enough to stop next to Stiles. “Hang out later? Remember, I’m getting out early.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles happily agrees, as Scott nods and calls his goodbyes while leaving. 

Erica must take that as her cue to get going, as well, though she takes her time about it. She also has the gall to sidle up next to Stiles and give him a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek. “Have a good day at school, honey.”

“Get out of here.” Stiles grins even as he’s cringing away from her, and he narrowly avoids falling into Peter’s lap for the trouble. “Or be prepared to pay for my therapy.”

She’s laughing in her usual, borderline-evil way as she heads out. It leaves Stiles and Peter alone in the kitchen, and according to their calendar, no one else will be getting up before Stiles leaves. They settle into comfortable silence, Peter scanning through more shoe options (apparently he’s having trouble deciding) while Stiles finishes breakfast and the last of his lukewarm coffee. 

After Stiles rinses his dishes in the sink and puts them in the dishwasher, he turns to face Peter. “How do you make my coffee better than I do?”

“I add as much sugar as the average person can reasonably stand. Then I double it.”

“Only double?” Stiles frowns. “You should at least be tripling it.”

“One of these days I’m going to hand you a mug full of sugar and see if you even notice there’s no coffee in it.”

Stiles’ eyes light up. “That sounds deli–”

“No,” Peter says succinctly.

“I’ll just do it when you’re not around,” Stiles tells him sullenly, catching sight of the time and starting to gather his things. He puts most everything together the night before because… _mornings_. Therefore his messenger bag is all set and he only needs his water and keys.

Peter walks with him out to the porch, which wraps around two sides of the home; one side overlooks the driveway, the other side faces the backyard and preserve beyond. Erica and Scott are long gone and Stiles twirls his keys around his finger, taking a moment to breathe in the crisp autumn air. They’re not far removed from summer, and the days are nowhere near cold, but the mornings have had a distinct chill the past week. It’s the only reason he’s standing closer to Peter than he normally would.

“It’s going to be a beautiful day,” Peter says, looking up at the sky, which is crystal clear, not a cloud currently in sight.

“It’d be more beautiful if I were still in bed and observing it out the window.” Stiles glances mournfully at the house.

“You’d choose to sleep the whole morning away?”

“Wouldn’t any sane person?” Stiles laments. He’s still twirling his keys, but stops when he almost loses them. (He actually _has_ flung them into the bushes before and he won’t have time to go searching for them this morning.)

“And yet you signed up for early classes.”

Stiles hears the unspoken question in Peter’s comment, and seeing as he’s vastly more awake than he was a half hour ago, it’s much easier to recall the reasons he’d made this semester’s schedule. “It’s easiest to find commuter parking for the earliest classes. Plus, the ones I wanted this fall lined up perfectly for a morning block.” _The main reason, though…well, he can talk around it._ “I also like getting out before noon and having the whole afternoon to myself.”

Peter nods and Stiles breathes out in relief, glad he hadn’t chosen to challenge that last claim, because it’s a real stretch. If Stiles truly wanted to be alone, he’d always be at the home listed on his license, and not the Hale house. The truth is, Stiles spends about 95% of his time here, and Peter is the only other person consistently here during the day. (So when Stiles is here, he’s rarely ‘alone’ even if he shuts himself in his room or some other quiet place within the large house.)

Early afternoons are some of the only times he and Peter get to spend together without anyone else around, and he wonders if the alpha enjoys it as much as he does. They’re as likely to spend a few hours talking about nothing of any real importance as they are to spend time researching: for one of Peter’s cases, or Stiles’ school projects, or the supernatural (because a lot of their current safety comes from being proactive about threats). But they equally enjoy focusing on their own things in companionable silence. Peter is one of the few people in his life (along with his dad and Scott) with whom Stiles can maintain his focus when they’re in the same room. (In fact, he might concentrate better with Peter around, which was heretofore unknown, but he’ll take it.)

“What do you want for lunch?” Peter’s asking, like he usually does when Stiles is about to leave. Because he expects Stiles back in time to share it with him. 

Stiles stares off over the preserve in thought, enjoying that the air feels like it’s waking him as effectively as the coffee had. “I’m not sure.” He checks the time. 7:29. He’s cutting it close, but it doesn’t stop him from lingering. “I could go for some sleep. With extra sleep on the side.”

“How am I supposed to cook that, my dear?”

“Fiiine,” he gives in. “Surprise me.” (It shouldn’t be hard. Peter’s been surprising him at every turn for a while now.)

“I can do that,” Peter says agreeably. “Tell me if you change your mind.”

Stiles nods, leaning into him slightly. “Thanks for the coffee. And toast.” _And company_ , is left unsaid.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yet I do, anyways.”

“Yes,” Peter says affectionately, “you always do.” He closes the few inches between them to brush a kiss along Stiles’ temple, whispering, “Good morning, sweetheart,” in an echo of his initial greeting from a half hour earlier.

“Good morning, Peter,” Stiles returns without hesitation, as the corner of his mouth lifts. It’s partly an inside joke between them, but it’s also his way of letting Peter know he’s feeling better. (Lately, Stiles has been finding that most days which start with Peter Hale are unequivocally _good._ )

“7:30,” Peter says, checking his watch. “Go, or you’ll be late.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles sighs, reluctantly heading down the porch steps. “See you in a few hours.”

“Enjoy your classes. Try not to text me all morning. Maybe actually pay attention today.”

“I can multitask,” Stiles insists, as he unlocks his jeep and drapes an arm over the door. He’s trying to frown at Peter, but it’s really difficult when he’s this happy, so he gives up after two seconds. “And I seem to recall that you’re always a willing participant in those conversations.”

“I plead the fifth,” Peter hums, motioning for him to get going. Right. Class. Stiles gets in his jeep, giving Peter a final wave as he starts the engine and taps a button on his phone’s navigation. It looks like virtually no traffic today, so he should make it to campus with enough time to spare for the short walk from the parking lot to class.

Half a minute later, he’s pulling out of the access road and onto the main thoroughfare that’ll take him out of Beacon Hills. The sun’s starting to rise high enough to reflect off the trees on either side of the road, colors coming to life before his eyes and getting brighter by the minute. The world really is beautiful at this time of day. He’s glad he gets to see it.

 _Mornings_ , he thinks, smiling and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel when a 90’s pop song comes on the radio. _They’re not so bad._

Some days he might even enjoy them.

(Depending on the company, of course.)


End file.
